


summer's end

by pondscumms



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: F/M, finally geared up my emo ass to post that sweet sweet disgusting oumashiro on ao3, pregame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 20:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pondscumms/pseuds/pondscumms
Summary: Kokichi Ouma casts his innocence into a roaring fire and then throws himself in, too. Tsumugi Shirogane can't say she didn't expect him to do that.





	summer's end

_By checking the box above, I, as an informed and consenting adult by Japanese law, fully relinquish to Team Danganronpa the rights to my likeness, identity, and physical body for the upcoming fifty-third season of Danganronpa._

 

*  


They say that all writers and artists have their muses. Daughters, brothers, wives and lovers. The familiar arch of a brow in a painter's greatest work, the copied tendencies of a beloved one dancing through the fibers of a novelist's quaint vignettes. For Tsumugi Shirogane, it's the mousy boy who shows up to interviews in a tidy high-collared traditional uniform and declares with a dishonest smile that he's better than all the rest.  
  
He's arrogant. The hubris comes off of him in waves and yet she can't stop staring.  
  
She sits at the judges' table with her chin in her palm and listens to him rattle off schemes that past participants could have used if they had his brilliant brain, if they'd stopped for a moment and realized how stupid they all were. Stupid stupid stupidheads. He cackles, throws his arms out wide theatrically. He promises her the best show she'll ever see.

  
*

  
His name is Kokichi and the way he walks screams _pay attention_. It's a hop, a skip, a jump, a swivel around the Corinthian column holding up the vaulted lobby ceiling. Team Danganronpa has always been all about presentation.  
  
He tells her she won't regret choosing him and she knows in her heart that he'll fly too close to the sun.  
  
People like him are not built to live past thirty. He dances through traffic, speeding cars nipping the rolled-up cuffs of his pants as he goes, runs free in the icy wind in his undershirt with wet hair. He's always riding on a little luck to get him by. That's his name, Kokichi. Just a little luck. And when it runs out she'll find him spread out on the road fifty feet wide with a vacant smile on his dead and bloodied face like he always meant to do that.  
  
"Who wants to be old and gross anyway?" he asks, fingers laced behind his head, elbows pointing towards Polaris. "I'd rather be a pile of blood and guts than some ninety-year-old nursing home schmuck who's more wrinkle than human being."  
  
Quietly, she agrees. People like her are not built to live past thirty. She sees it on the horizon, the day when her flesh will start to sag on her bones, the day she becomes a different kind of novelty at the conventions that have welcomed her year after year. Her face won't last forever. Neither will her legs.  
  
Maybe if she was more than just a body she wouldn't have these thoughts.  
  
She doesn't tell him that, though; god forbid he realize there's a brain inside her skull. She just shrugs and observes that he speaks fitting words for his archetype.  
  
One of these days she wants to burn hotter than the sun and melt his wax wings off feather by feather. Wants to hold his body close as they fall. Wants to die on impact with him, two pink splatters side by side.  
  
She doesn't tell him that, though.

 

*

  
The first time she kisses him, it feels like a firework show in miniature. He lulls her into a false sense of security with his soft lips and minuscule exhalation as his fingers lace behind her neck. Not suspecting a thing, she sallies forth, arms securing the planes of his waist and back, and proceeds with the tongue.  
  
There is popping candy stored in the warm grooves of his mouth.  
  
She jerks back, offended by the hiss and fizzle, and the only explanation she finds is a pleased smirk written across those demon lips of his.  
  
"Surprise," he says, a little bit of his tongue peeking out from between his teeth as he grins.  
  
Never, never, never, she's never going to get tired of him. This boy is the most entertaining thing in the world and she will be gone before she thinks otherwise. She kisses him again.

 

*

  
  
"What's that you're reading, Shirogane-chan?" he asks, when she's not paying attention to him. Because he can't have that. She wonders if he's the kind of entity who vanishes if nobody is looking at him. "Ohhh, it's manga. Maaaan, Shiro-chan is still a kid, huh? Sorry to break it to ya, but you're too old to pull off a rooftop confession and look cute doing it. Maybe you should've been more forward in high school instead of sticking to the wall like a sea star in a fish tank."  
  
Her thumb holds the crisp spine open by the two centimeters of space between the protagonist's and the love interest's puckered lips. How many rooftop confessions has she done? The camera shutters ring in her head.  
  
Soon it won't be cute anymore.  
  
He's in her lap, jacket undone to the fourth button, his bare neck warm and tempting in front of her. "Didn't you hear me?"  
  
Unconsciously, she licks her teeth.  
  
"I told you," he tells her, in a low and sultry voice, "We're not kids anymore." Fifth button. Sixth button.  
  
She dimly recalls how stupid his underwear is and yes, there it is, peeking out of his plain black uniform pants like a sleazy ad slipping out of a magazine when you pick it up by the spine. His stomach is soft and pale, even paler than the rest of him, having never seen the light of day. _Shame we're not filming a beach episode_ , she thinks.  
  
"You want to defile me, don't you? Go ahead, pervert. Take this body that's never been touched and turn it into a wasteland."  
  
She goes for the neck.

 

*

  
  
Sometimes he hates her. It's best not to be too talkative when he hates her, because that makes him hate her more. So she keeps her god damn mouth shut.  
  
"You fucking—" he pants. Half of his words are air.  
  
"You _stupid_ —"  
  
"You cold, you cold corporate bitch!" he shouts. His legs are hooked around her back and the sweat running down his brow trickles down the side of his face.  
  
"I hate you!"  
  
"I _hate_ you!"  
  
_"Fuck!"_ he screams, drawing to an end with a fatal spasm.  
  
The French call it _la petite mort._

 

*

  
  
"Well? What am I gonna remember in the Remembering Room?" he asks, leaning his head against the whitewashed wall of an antechamber labeled Remembering Room.  
  
Her words are muffled by the soon-to-be hickey on his neck, but she still manages to chide him for seeking out spoilers for his own game. Her tongue traces over older blues and purples and it's almost like she's trying to remember all of them, the one from her bedroom, the one in that hotel, the one from the shitty press party they only survived thanks to a large bottle of sake.  
  
He sighs and groans petulantly. They have seven minutes of heaven left.  
  
"Ouma? Ouma Kokichi?" asks some nobody in unattractive green scrubs.  
  
"I can't wait for you to kill me," he whispers.  
  
And then he's gone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hi im emerson and im so gay for tsumugi i daydream about her spooning me and counting prime numbers like she tells shuichi to do in salmon mode when im trying to fall asleep ANYWAY yea oumashiro sucks. not valid no rights. i love how everyone who likes this ship also hates it, god bless,


End file.
